


The Thing with Feathers

by ivory_leigh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, self-neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivory_leigh/pseuds/ivory_leigh
Summary: Aziraphale has been neglecting his wings. He's been neglecting a lot of things since Crowley left.





	The Thing with Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this post on Tumblr.](https://raiseafuckingglass.tumblr.com/post/185669885305/i-know-someone-said-something-about-crowley)

Aziraphale had been neglecting his wings. 

Well, not _neglecting,_ necessarily; that made it sound as though there were some sort of intent behind it. Aziraphale had just been so busy these past few decades, what with all the fighting and fomenting going on, and personal grooming had fallen a bit by the wayside. The world was so large, these days, and so cold, and it seemed to take a lot more miracles to put it to rights than it used to. Crowley might have slept through it all but Aziraphale, Aziraphale was very, very aware of all the things that needed to be done. He’d even gone so far as to put _himself_ on the front lines of the battlefield, although after his wound in 1917 he’d decided to retire that particular course of action. Not many miracles got done while he was recuperating in a Belgian field hospital. 

(He didn’t remember being shot but he did remember waking up afterward, remembered the bright, hot pain and the sudden, sharp surprise. He had thought—he had thought Crowley—) 

(He was given a commendation for his bravery. It hadn’t been bravery.)

Aziraphale had tried to take a bit of time off after that, close down the shop for a while, maybe go on vacation someplace sunny. But the wars kept going, and who could blame him for being a little unkempt in the face of world-wide turmoil? It wasn’t as though he’d stopped caring about his appearance altogether, but there were more important things going on. He was saving lives! Leading humanity to a better tomorrow! Why worry about a few rumpled feathers while he was bringing peace unto all God’s people? 

Granted, he hadn’t actually managed to save very many lives these past few decades, and it didn’t look as if there would be anything more than an uneasy peace any time soon. But it was his job to keep trying, over and over again, until everything had been mended or Armageddon had come. After all, that was what good angels did. 

(Wasn’t it?) 

(He’d never worried about global conflict before. He’d always been content to while away the hours in the background, doing little blessings, absolving little sins. It had been enough for him, this quiet, honest work, all the way up until—) 

His wings weren’t that bad, really. A little ruckled, maybe, without regular grooming, and the silhouette wasn’t exactly _beautiful_ with the bits of fluff and broken quills, but what did it matter? The humans he spent his time with couldn’t see them anyway, which meant that so long as he avoided going Upstairs, everything was just tickety-boo. (He thought about it, sometimes, going Upstairs. He imagined the angels’ faces when he showed up at the gate, bedraggle and bald patched, imagined what it would be like to let them _see_ him for the first time in six thousand years. They would look at him, and at his wings, and they would know.) 

(In his fantasies, the angels cared. They drew him into their arms and ran their fingers through his feathers, loved him, held him with such an infinite gentleness that he finally broke down on their shoulders and cried and cried and cried. Some distant, queasy part of him knew that wouldn’t happen. Some distant, queasy part of him couldn’t stop wanting it anyway.) 

It wasn’t the easiest thing, of course, staying down on earth. His miracle reports were long overdue, for one thing, although he probably had a few more years before anyone noticed. There was a war going on, after all. And when Gabriel had stopped by with the commendation he’d taken one look at Aziraphale’s bloody, badly bandaged leg and insisted he come back up to Heaven to have it looked at. Aziraphale hadn’t realized how afraid he was of being seen, of being known, until he thought for one heart-sinking second that Gabriel might force him. 

(They would know everything he’d ever tried to hide, all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that had buried themselves in his softness, all the tragedies and triumphs he’d agonized over, alone and lonely in the darkness of a world that had never been his—) 

Gabriel hadn’t forced him.

(Some distant, queasy part of him had hoped that maybe he would.) 

Aziraphale considered taking some time to preen his wings, after that, but it was a daunting task by then. Overwhelming. Fifty six years of negligence had left them matted and dirty, more dusty gray than angelic white, and preening alone was difficult in even the best of circumstances. Would it be worse to only groom the parts he could reach himself? It would make it more obvious, certainly, that something was wrong, leaving the edges of his wings nicely smoothed while the center continued to snarl. So he left them, and after a little while he stopped noticing the way the feathers snapped and snagged and pulled at his skin. There were bigger things to worry about. There was a war going on, after all. 

\- - - 

When Crowley reached out, carefully, gently, to brush a hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder, battered wings were the furthest thing from the angel’s mind. He was too busy shaking with adoration and adrenaline, filled with such a soft sort of sentimentality for all the years they’d both let slip by. All he noticed was the way Crowley smiled that snakish smile as he plucked a feather from the yoke of Aziraphale’s jacket. 

“You’re molting,” he said.

They were standing together in the yellow light of the bookshop’s back room, haloed by the nighttime that pressed in on every side, a stack of prophetic, soot-stained books sitting on the table behind them. Aziraphale didn’t know if this counted as fraternizing, exactly, but he’d been dreaming about it for almost a century now, sitting down with a glass of wine and a demon and all the things they’d never had a chance to say. It wasn’t until he saw Crowley’s expression freeze, mouth tight and brows drawn together, that Aziraphale remembered there was a secret he’d meant to keep away. 

(He’d thought about this sometimes, too. Imagined how he would look when Aziraphale stretched his wings out, bedraggled and bald patched, imagined what it would feel like to let Crowley _see_ him for the first time in seventy-nine years. He would look at him, and at his wings, and he would know.)

(Those fantasies ended before he could see Crowley's reaction. Aziraphale didn't let himself think that far, didn't let himself wonder what would happen if Crowley ever realized all the dangerous little things he'd ever done hoping for just a scrap of attention. It might break him. Aziraphale didn't want to be there if it did.) 

“Hang on,” the demon said. “What’s wrong with your feathers?” 

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, his voice too high and thready even in his own ears, and Crowley took a step forward, holding the feather out for him to see. 

“Look at that. It’s a wreck.”

It _was_ a wreck—blackened, at the edges, and fraying, all tangled with mud and mire that had clearly been there for a very long time. Aziraphale swallowed down around the feeling of his heart in his throat and said, “I did actually survive being _bombed_ a little more than half an hour ago, Crowley. Forgive me if I don’t look my heavenly best.” 

Crowley frowned, turning the feather over between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, his hat pushed back on his head. Behind him the bookshop was dark and silent and full, it seemed, of bright, bitter angels who had never cared for him and fraught, festering demons who had never known how, and after what seemed like a very long moment Crowley asked him, slowly, deliberately, “Aziraphale… is everything okay?” 

The angel felt his resolve begin to waver. 

He had spent so many years hiding his wings away, praying that people would see or not see him, acknowledge or ignore him, and he was—he was _tired_. He was, if he were being very honest, afraid. He was beginning to suspect that maybe he’d done irreparable damage to himself and to his wings, the kind of damage that could’ve been fixed once but had passed into permanence a long time ago because he'd been too stubborn or too frightened to face it. “I,” he managed. “I, er…”

He looked down at his hands and realized he was pale and trembling with the thought of what might come next. What would Crowley think of him? What would Crowley think of all the minor and momentous ways in which he had let himself _ache_? 

(He would know he was the reason Aziraphale had let this happen. He would know that this was his doing, his fault, his silence that had splintered the angel’s softness and left him alone and lonely in the darkness of a world that he had only ever known as _theirs_ —) 

“Let me see your wings,” Crowley said, a softness in his voice that he saved for moments when he knew he was asking for something Aziraphale might not be able to give. “I’ll groom them, if you want, like we used to. Sit you on the floor and we’ll get drunk while I fix your feathers. You can tell me what you’ve been up to lately. Tell me how you wound up being a double agent for a bunch of Nazi halfwits.” He smiled, a gentle, coaxing smile, and added, “I bet it’s a good story.” 

Aziraphale felt as though he were balanced on a precipice, grief on one side and silence on the other. He wanted. He _wanted_. He didn’t like to be alone. “It, it’s just that—” 

Crowley was watching him with the look of someone who was also anxious and wanting and maybe a little bit afraid. They’d never been here before, either of them. They’d never navigated the questions that came with spending almost a century apart. 

It was alright, though. It was alright now. 

After all of it, after everything, they had found each other again. 

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t meant to be holding and before he could talk himself out of it he pulled his wings out of the ether, slowly, slower, letting them stretch from wall to wall. It was liberating. It was terrifying. He watched Crowley's face as it crumpled in on itself like a paper being fed to the flame. 

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, _angel._ ” 

The wings itched and pulled in places, the pinch of old feathers still caught on new skin, and the muscles underneath them ached from being tucked away all this time, hidden in the dark place between realities where he could go on pretending everything was okay. Aziraphale swallowed and stretched his wings and pretended the thickness in his throat was from the burn of corporeality and not from shame. 

“Angel,” Crowley breathed again. “Are you—” 

“You must,” Aziraphale cut in, his voice suddenly very tight. “You must think I’m ridiculous. We don’t see each other for a few decades and just _look_ at the mess I’ve made.” 

“I don’t think you’re ridiculous." Slowly—every bit as slowly as Aziraphale had opened his wings—Crowley reached up and pulled his glasses off. His eyes were wide in the yellow light, and watery, and earnest. He smiled. "It has been a long few decades, hasn't it?" 

"It—" Aziraphale swallowed again and sniffled, the relief like a palpable thing in his chest. "It has." 

There was a moment of silence that stretched between them, a string of words they still just couldn't say, but Crowley reached out a hand to lay it on Aziraphale's shoulder, and this time, it stayed. "Come on," he murmured, nudging him toward the sagging corduroy couch. "You said you had a Marques de Murrieta lying around?" 

"Upstairs," Aziraphale said. "In the kitchen." And he watched Crowley disappear into the darkness of a world that had finally become _theirs_ once again. 


End file.
